


Dark Memes and Manitoba Dreams

by SunshineAndaLittleFlour, twistedmiracle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bitty is just confused, Jack Zimmermann thinks he's a terrible boyfriend, M/M, attempts at romance, blow jobs are mentioned but not explicit, both good and bad, but he's not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29449038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineAndaLittleFlour/pseuds/SunshineAndaLittleFlour, https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: Romance. Jack could do romance. Absolutely, Jack could do romance, he could romance thepantsoff romance, that’s how well he could do romance.Jack gripped the steering wheel harder and tried to convince himself that the pants thing made sense and he wasn’t a lost cause. After all, he did spend his formative years watching his parents be grossly in love and romantic, surely some of that made its way through to Jack. Somehow. It must have. Whether by observation or genetics, he wasn’t going to guess right now.Jack was dialing before he even thought about it, and it wasn’t until his mother’s voice was in his ear that Jack considered what a terrible idea this might be.Or, Jack tries to be a better boyfriend.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 19
Kudos: 98





	Dark Memes and Manitoba Dreams

It started, like most things in Jack’s life, in the locker room. 

“Yeah,” Thirdy said, tapping the side of his stall, where a picture of his wife and their kids had been taped, back when the kids were much, much smaller than how Jack knew them. “She’s a romantic, my wife is, but it means I get to feel pretty suave sometimes, so I’m definitely not complaining.”

“Suave isn’t a word I’d use to describe you, Thirdy,” Marty laughed, dodging the towel Thirdy threw his way. “But I’ll admit, you certainly seem to know the way to Aisha’s heart, even if it is just maintaining your shoulders.”

“Hey!” Thirdy flexed said shoulders, then slumped and grinned. “It’s more than that.” He turned and spoke more to the room at large, to the other players gathered in the space, to Jack in the corner, untying his skates. “Word from the wise gentleman, find out what she likes and keep your woman happy. When you find the right one, romance is a game you never stop playing.” He winked, and several discarded towels sped toward him at once. 

Jack’s fingers were frozen on his skates, the laces off-white and rough in his hands. 

_Oh_ , he thought. _Oh no_.

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They hadn’t told the boys yet, hadn’t told anyone really, except Jack’s parents, so he couldn’t immediately call Shitty for advice.

Or, well, he did, but then ended the call before it could start ringing. Shitty would probably assume it was a buttdial and make a joke about his ass later.

So instead of calling his best friend, Jack sat in his truck and stared at the steering wheel and thought about what a terrible boyfriend he was. A terrible _unromantic_ boyfriend.

He spent several minutes spiraling about that, then snapped himself out of it. He’d caught it early, he decided, he could still fix this. He could get his shit together enough to convince Bitty, the Literal Greatest Thing To Happen To Him Ever, that Jack was worth keeping around. 

Romance. Jack could do romance. Absolutely, Jack could do romance, he could romance the _pants_ off romance, that’s how well he could do romance. 

Jack gripped the steering wheel harder and tried to convince himself that the pants thing made sense and he wasn’t a lost cause. After all, he did spend his formative years watching his parents be grossly in love and romantic, surely some of that made its way through to Jack. Somehow. It must have. Whether by observation or genetics, he wasn’t going to guess right now. 

Jack was dialing before he even thought about it, and it wasn’t until his mother’s voice was in his ear that Jack considered what a terrible idea this might be.

“Jack! I’m so glad you called, your father and I were just talking about you and—”

“Maman,” Jack interrupted desperately, his mouth moving without his brain’s permission. “Am I terrible at romance?”

His mother was silent, but Jack could picture what her face was doing, eyebrows raised, seeking out his father from across the room, no doubt wondering how the two most charismatic people in the world had managed to create...him. He bowed his head so far his forehead bumped the steering wheel. He left it there.

“Is something wrong?” Maman asked gently, cautiously, like Jack was a bear loose in the backyard and she was worried he’d eat her birdfeeder. “Did Eric say something?”

“No,” Jack said, then immediately, “no, why? Did he say something to you?”

Maman laughed, and he could picture her smiling now, nodding at his father because they were so in love they didn’t even need to talk sometimes. Jack wanted to be that in love. No, he _was_ that in love, but Bitty’s love language was sound and affection and Jack wasn’t sure he actually knew how to speak it. 

“Jack, darling, Eric sends me recipes, he doesn’t tell me my son is or is not romantic. And of course you’re not bad at romance.”

Through the line, Jack dimly heard his father laugh, and his brain finally got the message to the rest of his body that this was a Very Bad Idea and he would never hear the end of it from his parents. He could feel his shoulders curling inward. He let them.

But hey, he was already on the phone, right? He gritted his teeth and tried again. “Maman.” He was pretty sure his voice was nice and steady. “I need to be good at romance. I need to romance Bitty. Do you have, you know, advice? Something _helpful_ maybe?”

“I would, I’m sure,” his mother said airily, “if only your ridiculous father wasn’t about to romance me with a romantic dinner out at a romantic restaurant.”

Jack could hear his father laughing in the background. “That’s me!” he heard his dad yell. “Good old Zimmermann charm!”

“Jack, darling,” his mother said, now sounding gentle, “everyone is different. There are the obvious things that apply to everyone, like kindness, and flowers, and… dinner dates? But you know Eric far better than I do, so you need to think about him, what he likes, who he is. You can do this, sweetheart, and I think you’ll find it isn’t even that hard.”

Deflating, Jack mumbled something vaguely agreeable. They exchanged a few pleasantries before saying goodbye. Jack hung up the phone and bumped his head down onto his steering wheel. Then he sat up straight, opened his glove compartment to fish out a napkin, and started to write a game plan. He could do this, he decided. He had to do this. This was how he got to keep Bitty. And Maman said it would be easy, if he just applied himself.

Jack knew how to apply himself.

He finished his list and nodded down at it, before shoving it in his pocket and turning on his car. 

Jack would romance the pants off romance and Bitty.

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First stop: the Hallmark store. They had an entire channel devoted to romantic movies, even if they were all straight, so surely the store would have something romantic, even if it was just a sweet card or two.

Jack meant to pick up one really nice card. Instead, he ended up finding so many that were kind of… vaguely close? But not a single one that was perfect. This one said wife, that one was too pink. This one had penguins, that one was written in really frilly type. He saw some attractive cards that were blank on the inside, but when he tried to imagine what he would write in them, he shook his head and put them back. Jack Zimmermann was not a blank card sort of man. So he ended up buying every single card that seemed like it could be an acceptable option. Everything that didn’t explicitly indicate heterosexuality. Even the one with the damn gender-neutral penguins. After all, Jack might still be a little hung up on his dad’s career, but Bitty wasn’t. 

Then, standing at the counter with his pathetic haul of only three cards, he impulsively bought a boy figure skating figurine he saw on the shelf behind the clerk. Of course, he almost threw the figurine in the trash when he got home because… it was just completely wrong. It was pastel colored and somehow read as either infantile or feminine, he wasn’t quite sure which. Worse, it was weirdly slick to the touch. Except, what if it wasn’t wrong?! Slowly, he put it back in the little box and stuck it on his bed next to the stack of cards. Then he cleared out an entire drawer in anticipation of buying things to give Bitty and saving them in there until the right moment.

Then he put all his socks back and put the skating figurine and all the cards but one in an empty amazon box and stuck them on the very highest shelf of his closet because he was such an idiot, Bitty sometimes grabbed socks from Jack’s sock drawer.

He wrote “I love you, Jack” inside the penguin card and went downstairs to mail it to the Haus, before he could second guess himself yet again.

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Second on his list: make another list.  
Hockey  
Figure skating  
Baking  
Beyonce  
Twitter  
Pie

Jack almost threw his pen across the room. He'd started with good intentions: write up a list of things Bitty liked, to give him ideas on how to be a better...everything, but now he felt stupid. This was a list of things anybody who'd met Bittle for ten minutes could come up with. Jack was his boyfriend! Jack should know more!

And he did, he did know. Jack was a veritable dictionary of Things About Bitty, but when he thought about trying to write it down, to do something with that knowledge, his hands started to shake and all he could come up with was figure skating and pie. Stupid. 

In his defense, how did a person put love into words? Bitty liked holding Jack's hand, liked when Jack put his hands on Bitty's waist, liked when Jack tugged him closer…

Jack looked down at his list and very slowly wrote 'my hands' at the bottom. 

Then he did throw his pen across the room and picked up his phone instead. He ordered a dozen roses to be sent to the Haus, then frantically called back and cancelled the order because they were a secret. The boys don't know, and Jack couldn’t fuck that up by sending Bitty roses to the house he shared with half a dozen other guys.

Then he dialed the florist’s number a third time, and the same harried woman he'd already spoken to picked up, and that was great, this shop — and this florist specifically — was going to hate him now.

"Hi," Jack said tentatively. "I just called?"

"Yeah," the woman said dryly, "I know. What can I do for you this time?"

"Can I re-place that order of roses?" Jack asked. "But have the card not say who they're from? And actually, could you make it two dozen roses? And maybe some other flowers. What are the best ones?"

The woman was quiet for so long that Jack worried she'd hung up on him. 

"Just to be clear," she said, just as Jack was contemplating calling back a fourth time. "You want multiple anonymous arrangements sent to the address you provided? Still for the same," she paused, presumably looking up the name Jack gave her the first time, "Eric Bittle?"

"Yes," Jack said. Then hurriedly added, "please."

There was muffled movement, like maybe the woman had pulled the phone away from her ear and pressed it to her shirt for a moment, then she was listing the more popular arrangements the shop provided, and Jack found himself rattling off his credit card number again, then telling her to just keep it on file.

Maybe Maman would like some flowers too, the next time she was in Providence.

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Jack tried to let it go. He needed to get a good night’s sleep, they were leaving for New Jersey in the morning. The Devils were on a hot streak and they were going to play the Islanders the next night. Jack was looking forward to that one, because he’d been watching tape and he thought he’d caught a weakness in their goalie’s defense.

He was walking down the street near their Newark hotel when he saw a cute gift shop. He stopped in on a whim, and oh! There was a rack of postcards. He bought one of the Statue of Liberty, as seen from Jersey City (which seemed like cheating from Newark, but he didn’t really care) and asked at the counter if they had any postcard stamps to sell. They did, and as he bought a sheet of twenty he felt lighter already.

Jack was being romantic! And Spontaneous! He could do this. He wrote “I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty, despite the French connection” on the postcard and popped it into the next blue mailbox he saw on a street corner. He didn’t think he could ever forget the Haus’ address.

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He was about to climb into the hotel bed for his pre-game nap, when Bitty called. He’d hardly said hello when Bitty said "Jack Zimmermann, what have you done?"

"...what?" 

Bitty didn’t sound romanced.

"Jack," Bitty hissed into the phone. "The Haus looks like a homecoming parade float! And I'm so flattered, believe me, this was lovely and I love you a lot, but the boys are starting to wonder if I'm dating a florist. Or possibly multiple florists!"

Jack tipped the phone away from his mouth and sighed heavily, slumping on the hotel bed. At least Tater was in the bathroom. “Sorry Bits.”

“It’s not that I don’t love this Jack, because trust me, I do,” Bitty said gently. “It’s just...if we’re gonna keep this under wraps then unfortunately the grand floral gestures will have to wait. Or maybe be smaller, although at this point if wildflowers spring up on the Haus lawn the boys will chirp me for days. Maybe just stick to bouquets in Providence for now?”

Jack dropped his head onto the bedside table. He thought about a cardboard box of Hallmark cards, all addressed to the Haus, about his list of things Bitty loved, about a tiny figure skating figurine, about the coffee mug he’d bought that said “cutie pie” with a drawing of a piece of pie. 

“It sounds like the boys are starting to rearrange the vases, I’ve got to go save these flowers,” Bitty said, and there was distracted yelling in the background, so at least Jack’s purchase had delighted someone. “I’ll talk to you later, sweetpea, love you!”

He hung up before Jack could respond.

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Jack got a text two days later, and he felt forgiven for the flower debacle. It was a selfie with Bitty holding both the postcard he’d sent from Newark and the envelope Jack knew contained the gender-neutral penguin card. He saw Chowder in the background, a tall, blurry blob clearly trying to get into the photo with Bitty.

An accompanying text came a moment later. 

**Thanks for the mail, sweetpea! 💌 I love them! I  
have a campus PO box too, if that’s easier to  
use. It’s not big enough for packages, but it’s  
perfect for letters and postcards 💋 ❤️  
**

The address followed, and Jack jotted it down, in neat cursive, on a post-it note that folded up nice and small. He could be more careful with what he sent to the Haus, but it was nice to have a way to send something small, just for Bitty. It felt spontaneous in a controlled way, which Jack thought might negate the point, but he didn’t mind that much. 

The next roadie he was on he sent another postcard, this time from Buffalo. He chose one with a little park covered in snow, a dignified Canadian goose standing tall in the foreground. He smiled as he bought it and wrote “Am I your Canada goose?” but didn’t bother with a signature. Bitty’s other address was carefully tucked in Jack’s wallet, and he checked the campus box number against his memory before he wrote it down and mailed it out.

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Jack turned in a circle to examine the guest bathroom. He’d never used it, but — unlike his master bathroom — it had a bathtub. A large one. He’d heard Guy say something about Nichole loving candles, and had what was, he was pretty damn sure, a fucking _brilliant_ idea. And the bathroom was ready. He could start the water running in the tub as soon as he got Bitty back from the train station, he could light all the candles while the water was running. The insanely fluffy towels, peach scented body wash, and peach scented shampoo bar from that Goat Milk Soap company Marty’s wife Gabby had mentioned once were all within reach from the tub.

He would pick Bitty up, bring him home, and they could climb into the tub together for a relaxing, romantic evening together. Bitty would lay back against Jack’s chest, and Jack would wash him till he melted into a puddle of peach scented goo. Then Jack would dry them both off, take Bitty to bed, and suck his boyfriend’s cock until Bitty couldn’t remember the ingredients to his own Moo Maw’s peach cobbler.

He looked at his watch. It was a little early to leave for the train station, but not that much. Smiling, Jack closed the guest bathroom door and headed out. 

He waited in his usual parking space, and saw Bitty right away as he emerged from the station. He grinned a little, waiting for Bitty to bounce and sway over to the car, like usual.

Bitty did not bounce. He… slouched. Slumped. Dragged his feet. Jack frowned and Bits climbed up into the truck. “What’s the matter, bud?” Jack asked, worried.

“I might…” Bitty yawned enormously, then blushed. “I might be coming down with something? I knew you would tell me not to cancel, hon, so I didn’t even bother telling you, but, uh… I’m completely beat. I just want to climb into bed with you and fall asleep, is that okay?”

Jack worked to keep his face blank and calm. He couldn't let Bitty know how disappointed he was, because this was not Bitty’s fault. Or anyone’s. These things happened sometimes and the candles and peach products would all keep. “Of course, bud,” he said. “I think that sounds great. We can even stop for burgers on the way back to the condo, if you're hungry?”

Bitty turned his huge brown eyes to Jack. “Really, sweetpea? You’d eat fast food for me?”

“I know it’s your guilty pleasure sometimes, Bits,” he said, and now he could smile. “Especially when you’re feeling beat, or getting sick. I promise not to tell the guys if you promise not to tell the team nutritionist.”

“Nate would kill us,” Bitty agreed mildly as he closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. “Sounds good then, darlin’. Fast food burger, greasy french fries, and a strawberry milkshake from my love.”

Mentally waving goodbye to his heavily stocked guest bathroom, Jack took a moment to be glad he’d closed the doors to both that bathroom and the guest bedroom itself. He pulled out of the parking space and aimed his truck for the road.

And if Jack was even quieter than usual during that visit, well, Bitty needed the rest anyways.

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“Yo,” Canoe said, dropping into the bench beside Jack and sweeping his hair out of his face with a massive glove. Shitty sometimes gave Jack a hard time about his boyband bangs (which he had grown into, Thank You Very Much), but really Jack had nothing on Canoe, who reminded him of the old Justin Bieber poster Ransom had anonymously mailed to the Lax house every week for a month.

“Hey.” Jack scooted over a bit to make room, lacing his skates tighter. They were in Tampa Bay, getting ready to practice on the other team’s ice before they headed back to yet another generic hotel for naps.

Canoe scratched at his jaw with his gloved hand then tugged it off with his teeth, and Jack remembered being eighteen and stupid and stubbly. He didn’t think his eighteen quite matched Canoe's eighteen though, because the kid’d been pulled into management’s office more than once for a discussion on proper media usage and respectable athlete hookup culture. 

George had asked him to have a talk with Canoe about it, since apparently, Jack was a model boring media candidate. Jack had yet to find it in him to talk to Canoe, because talking to Canoe made him feel Old, and Very Glad he found Bitty.

“Hey, Zimmboni?” Canoe said, right as Jack started to think maybe Canoe would know something about modern romance. Maybe he could subtly ask him?

“Hmm?”

“You look like the kind of guy who knows how to secretly get laid.”

Jack nearly sliced his fingers on his skates. He blinked at his hands for a moment, then turned and looked at Canoe incredulously. 

“Uh,” he said, because it wasn’t like Canoe was Wrong, he just seemed like he didn’t mean monogamously. 

“I mean, yeah,” Canoe continued, without a hint of awkwardness or discomfort, and god, suddenly Jack wished he was eighteen and stupid again, even though eighteen-year old him would Not have talked to an older teammate about getting laid. “George said I should try to be more like you, since apparently your sex life doesn’t draw any media attention. Any tips? And I don’t mean about hiding hickeys, I know how to do that already.”

“Uh,” Jack said again, then any thoughts he’d had on asking Canoe for advice came crashing together in his brain. “Actually,” he said slowly, sitting up and forcing himself to make eye contact with Canoe. “I’m trying something a little different right now, trying to be more romantic.”

Canoe squinted at him, then nodded. “Tight. So, like, more oral?”

Jack was Regretting The Conversation.

“Uh.”

“Well yeah,” Canoe said, like equating oral with romance in his workplace was just an average Thursday for him. “It’s all about making the ladies feel appreciated, right? She can’t do all the work. She goes down, you go down. Equality.” He said this proudly, and while Jack didn’t disagree with him, he also wasn’t expecting to discuss it at work. 

“Uh,” he said again, his new favorite word. Canoe looked at him like he expected more, though, so Jack swallowed and nodded. “No, you’re absolutely right, that just wasn’t really the, uh, angle I was going for.”

“Men should eat out more,” Canoe said, then slapped Jack on the shoulder, like he was somehow the one imparting Great Wisdom. “Don’t be ashamed of it, man, just work your magic.” 

Jack wished he could tell Canoe that he was using different skills right now, if only because he was actually kind of proud at how good he was at taking Bitty apart like that, but decided that a Tuesday in Tampa’s visitor locker room was not the time for coming out. Yet. 

So he just nodded and told Canoe not to give his hookups his Snapchat, even if he still wasn’t really sure what that meant. Canoe nodded like it was sage wisdom though, and even made a little note on his phone, before clapping Jack on the shoulder again and ambling off to look like a Canadian popstar somewhere else. 

Jack mentally scratched ‘ask a teammate for advice’ off his _romance Bitty_ list and headed for the ice.

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He did blow Bitty A Lot more the next weekend he spent in Providence, then told himself it was just a coincidence.

Bitty didn’t seem to mind.

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After the debacle with Canoe, Jack started to wonder if there was literally anyone else in his life he could ask for advice. He was too embarrassed to bring it up with another teammate, but realized almost immediately that...he didn’t know a lot of couples.

There were Chowder and Farmer, who were cute and all, but Jack knew for a fact that Chowder wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut if Jack asked him. Shitty and Lardo’s brand of romance wasn’t exactly what he was going for, and his parents had already proven to be as helpful as they’d ever be. The Canoe Situation made it feel impossible to talk to Marty or Thirdy, and nobody else at the Haus could seem to maintain a romantic relationship for longer than a couple of months. Jack kind of wanted to marry Bitty, he couldn’t take advice suitable for a month-long relationship plan. 

And Oh. OH. Jack kind of wanted to... marry Bitty. 

He wasn’t going to propose anytime soon, Bitty was still in school and nobody even knew they were dating. He wasn’t ready for that, neither of them were, but just acknowledging the words in his head made Jack feel...Warm, and Settled. 

Now if only he could just keep Bitty around long enough to make marriage a possibility. 

So Jack, with no one else to turn to in real life, turned to a plethora of romantic knowledge of both the right and wrong variety: the internet. 

It was on the third website (Cosmopolitan, Jack thought, or maybe Vogue? All those websites looked the same to him, the same tired-looking skinny blonde model draped over furniture, looking like she’d really rather Jack didn’t take another relationship quiz with too many exclamation points) that Jack stumbled across it. 

It wasn’t yet another relationship quiz, thankfully, but an ad tucked into the bottom corner of the page. The advertising was for some kind of housewarming gift site, but the display was of an apron, light blue with little tiny slices of pie stamped across the surface. Jack was clicking on it and then immediately pressing the ‘add to cart’ button before he was even consciously aware of it. The website promised to send it to him within a week, and would he like a matching pair of oven mitts? Jack decided he would and then added a red spatula too, for luck.

He headed back to the quiz to attempt it once again, but there was another ad on the site for specialty chocolate, and Jack, well, he already had his credit card out. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the variety of chocolate available (chocolate covered almonds? Those have protein, should he be worried about protein intake when buying fancy chocolate for his boyfriend?) before settling for some well-reviewed specialty baking chocolate. No, make that _all_ the well-reviewed baking chocolate. Which turned out to be four different kinds. Remembering the hissed discomfort regarding the flowers, and the hint about the campus mailbox, Jack had all of it sent to his house. That way, he could wrap it, too.

Feeling confident in his gift-giving ability, Jack turned back to the relationship website and sighed before clicking on another relationship quiz. Maybe this one would finally tell him how he and Bitty could spice up their relationship, not just that he needed to.

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He mailed another postcard, this one from Nashville, sporting a nighttime reflection of the skyline in the Cumberland River. This time he didn’t need to check the paper in his wallet to be certain he had the number of the PO Box. He still kept the message pretty basic, just a simple note about the stroll he’d taken through the city, then signed his name and sent it. It felt small, but just enough.

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Jack was putting his gear bag down by the door after practice when he heard an unexpected voice. “Jack!!”

He turned and peered around the open corner into his living room. Shitty was very early.

“Shitty, you had better have some sort of cloth between your ass and my new couch. Also, what are you doing in my condo already?” Jack smelled the air. “And how high are you?”

“Class got canceled so I got on the first possible train, my perfect Jackalope! Thanks for giving me an intro to the doorman last time, he was happy to let me in!”

Jack sighed. He had intended to do some… tidying before Shitty showed up. Of course, as high as he already was, he probably hadn’t noticed anything that would give away Bitty’s new status in Jack’s life.

Jack headed over and sat on the back of the couch, looking down at Shitty. He had something brown in his mustache. And his chin. And his—Jack resolutely did not look past Shitty’s chin. 

“Did you…” he took a deep breath, feeling the panic build in his chest, “eat my chocolate?”

“It sucked, man,” Shitty whined, completely oblivious to the way Jack’s face was probably visibly falling. “I tried all four kinds! What the hell kind of bitter-ass chocolate did you even buy, man?”

“High-quality baking chocolate,” Jack sighed, trying not to cry, or punch his best friend. “Four different kinds.”

“Ooooh….” Shitty said, frowning in confusion. “For Bitty?”

Unable to think of a single useful thing to say, Jack just nodded.

“Well, that’s ok, man!” Shitty yelped, his pupils devouring his irises. “Bitty could still bake you something awesome, man, I only ate, like, two squares from each box!”

Well, at least Shitty was so high that he absolutely hadn’t noticed a single fucking thing that would give away Bitty’s new status in Jack’s life.

Shitty frowned, like there was something he could almost see, but it was just past the edge of where he was looking. 

“Well, shit, man, I’m sorry anyway. I mean, I guess I shouldn’t have eaten that stuff.” He frowned again, then visibly perked up, twisting to look at Jack, chocolate still hanging off the edges of his mustache. “But, like, I’ve been meaning to tell you about this great little Indian restaurant I just discovered between Boston and Providence. India Palace? You have just Got To Try It. They even have some goat on the menu, man! You know how much I love a spicy goat dish. But you should go! Maybe you shouldn’t have the goat, because I know it isn’t for everyone. My mom had the butter chicken and she fucking loved it. She let me have a bite and it was so dope! And her colleague came along and had the tikka masala and that smelled fucking fantastic? But Jesus, Jack, the goat was amazeballs!”

Jack sighed and let Shitty change the subject. “India Palace?”

Shitty nodded, looking delightedly to be mostly naked, covered in chocolate, and talking about Indian food on Jack’s couch. “Yeah, yeah, it’s a-fucking-mazing, dude. It’s in, like, Attleboro? Or maybe it’s North Attleboro. Anyway, you have to try it!”

Jack thought about ruined baking chocolate and trying new things. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, alright, I think I will.” He looked down at Shitty, who was slumped languidly on the couch. “But not tonight. We’ll order Thai or something.”

Shitty threw his arms toward Jack in an approximation of a hug, but really just kind of smacked him a few times. “I love you, Jack Zimmermann.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack said, shoving him off and walking back to his bag to find his phone. “When I get back there better be more clothing on your body, not less.”

“My body will be controlled by no man!” Shitty shouted after him.

Jack shook his head, but took a moment to Google the India Palace before switching to a different tab to order their Thai. Maybe Bitty would want to try something a little different.

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He started to keep an eye out for more postcards. Every roadie they went on, every new city they played, Jack tried to stop at a little airport kiosk or at a tourist trap near the stadium to grab one. After a bit, he added a sleeve of postcard stamps to the outside pocket of his gear bag, and it was an easy thing to do, to write Bitty’s campus PO Box on a slim piece of cardstock and send it to him, like he was mailing his love from across the country. Sometimes he picked up a trinket, too. A small puzzle of the Montreal skyline. A knitted toque from Detroit in Samwell red. But he picked up a postcard in every city he visited.

It had definitely become more habit than spontaneity at that point, probably close to two dozen postcards later, but it was nice and familiar now: travel, find postcard, mail to Bitty. 

He was at a little airport gift shop in Phoenix, filling in the message and feeling brave enough to draw a tiny lopsided heart before signing his name, when he could feel someone behind him. 

Jack glanced over his shoulder and found Canoe, a pack of Redvines in his hands, looking down at the little heart on Jack’s postcard. 

“Nice,” he said, before Jack could do anything but feel the start of panic curling through his stomach. “I can see my advice came in handy.”

Jack looked back down at his postcard, relieved that he hadn’t written Bitty’s address in yet, and shrugged. 

Canoe nodded, boyband hair flopping over his forehead. “Tight. Equality.” He punched Jack’s shoulder and headed for the register counter with his Redvines. 

Jack took a deep steadying breath and filled in the rest of the postcard.

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Jack had a plan. He had a Great Plan, even, and Google Maps was thwarting him. He huffed, trying not to seem too annoyed, and poked at his phone screen again, trying to get it to tell him anything beyond “turn left.”

Bitty, nose pressed close to the window, reached back and tapped Jack without turning around. “I think that’s the place?”

Jack craned his neck to see past Bitty’s head, and promptly drove past the parking lot entrance. He sighed and made another u-turn. This wasn’t the romantic evening he’d envisioned when he picked up Bitty from the train station. 

They drove by the place three times before finally turning into the right parking lot. Bitty got out of the car before Jack could get out and open his door. 

“India Palace, right?” he said. He turned and smiled enormously at Jack, but Jack could hardly see it, because damn, was that where he’d bragged he was bringing his boyfriend? It was called India _Palace_ for crisse sake. That wasn’t a palace, that was a hole in the wall. And it looked kind of… dingy. But Bitty was heading for the door, so Jack followed. This time he managed to jump ahead and open the door for his boyfriend, at least.

Bitty beamed at him. 

Jack peered into the restaurant. There was a cracked plastic sign in a metal stand that said they should seat themselves. “Booth?” he asked, because he knew what Bitty usually preferred. Jack liked chairs, but this was for Bitty, who smiled at him again.

“I’d love that,” he said, and they sat down in the one and only booth. The tall plastic seat was scuffed, and although the table was clean, it was also pretty scratched up. Two sticky-looking menus waited for them on either side of the booth. Jack held back a sigh. Some palace. 

Jack looked around at the other patrons. He had imagined the place full of beautiful women in saris, glittering with jewels and brightly colored silk. He should have realized the complete lack of photos on their website was suspicious. Instead, there were just two young men, one in a grubby MIT t-shirt, the other in a plain gray kurta. They were eating naan and chattering quietly to each other in what Jack thought was probably an Indian language, though which one he’d never be able to guess (and then he promptly felt a little racist for simultaneously generalizing and trying to specify). The place only had one booth and five tables. He and Bitty were the only other customers.

Jack thought about sending a frustrated text to Shitty, because this was not the romantic atmosphere he’d wanted at all, but Shitty didn’t know that’s what Jack wanted. Shitty didn’t know he was trying desperately to save his relationship with Bitty. So he tucked his phone away and looked at the menu. It had about a dozen dishes listed, most of which were a type of curry, and Jack was starting to feel like the first time his mother had told him to pick out colors for a suit; overwhelmed and disappointed all at once. 

“Did Shitty recommend anything in particular?” Bitty asked, and Jack looked at him, haloed in yellow by the light above them. 

He sighed. “He said the butter chicken was really good. And the goat.”

“Well I’m not big on goat,” Bitty said, closing his menu. “But butter chicken sounds fabulous.”

Jack hoped the food was good, at least. Shitty usually knew what he was talking about when it came to quality food.

A server approached their table. His smile was tired, like he was at the end of a very long shift. “Gentlemen,” he said, his accent heavy. Like the restaurant he smelled strongly, though not unpleasantly, of curry. Bitty greeted him warmly, and the man’s face seemed to soften.

“I’ll have the butter chicken,” Bitty told the server, the epitome of charm even when Jack had dragged him to unexpectedly drab places. “A friend recommended this place, and he said it was very good.” 

The server smiled at Bitty again, and this time it looked genuine. “Very good, yes. My brother’s recipe.”

“Oh!” Bitty said, perking up. “Is he cooking tonight?”

“He is, yes,” the server said. “Our best. Learned everything from our mother at home. How spicy do you want your chicken?”

“Not at all,” Bitty said, his laugh sweet and self-deprecating. “I’m from the South!”

The server’s smile turned even warmer. “Of course, sir,” he said. “Anything to drink?”

“Mango lassi?” Bitty said, clearly asking the server’s opinion. 

“A good choice,” he replied. He took Bitty’s menu, then looked at Jack. “You, sir?”

Jack hadn’t gotten far with the menu yet, so he just pointed at the one, singular goat dish listed in the “lamb and goat” section. He and Shitty had similar enough taste in food. “This one, please? And a mango lassi as well?”

The man looked at Jack far less warmly than he had Bitty, but wrote down their orders and left without asking Jack how spicy he wanted his meal. 

“It’s nice that you could find a place away from any reporters,” Bitty said quietly, leaning across the table to smile winningly at Jack. 

“Yeah,” Jack muttered, taking another glance at the worn carpet and mismatched light fixtures and breathing in the heavy smell of curry. “I doubt any of them will find their way here.” He didn’t call the restaurant a hole in the wall, even though it clearly was. But, the places with the best, most authentic food often were holes in the wall, so he tried not to feel too discouraged. 

Bitty talked about his classes and the boys back at the Haus while Jack tried not to sulk over his terrible decision-making skills until the server reappeared. He had their main dishes balanced in his arms, along with a large platter of rice and two smaller dishes filled with yogurt. He disappeared again, then reappeared with their drinks.

“Thank you!” Bitty said, and the server mirrored his smile. 

“Enjoy!”

Bitty tucked into his food right away and hummed with delight. “Shitty was right, Jack, this was delicious!”

Jack looked down at his dish. There were bite-sized chunks of both goat and potato, swimming in a sauce that smelled of vinegar and chili paste. He picked up a piece of meat, thinking maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. Bitty was enjoying his food and didn’t seem too put out by the bargain-basement atmosphere. Maybe he was doing something right. 

Then Jack bit into his goat and Immediately knew he was Wrong. 

His tongue immediately started to burn. With other spicy food he’d had it was a gradual thing, warming the inside of his mouth with pleasant spice and burn. But this. This lit up the inside of his mouth Immediately, and Jack had to fight not to spit it out in shock. 

“How is it, sweetpea?” Bitty asked, and Jack hoped desperately that he wasn’t tearing up or turning red. He chewed and swallowed quickly, then offered Bitty a weak smile. 

“Great,” he lied.

Bitty beamed. 

Jack drank deeply from his lassi and tried to figure out how much yogurt he needed to pour over his goat to make it edible and how weird he’d look doing it. He took fully half the rice and poured it over his meal, mixing it together in the hopes that that would help.

He hardly said another word while they ate, discreetly dunking each forkful of goat into his yogurt, desperately trying to cut the heat and failing miserably. He couldn’t believe how badly he’d messed this up. At least the raita was tasty. And helping. He got another mango lassi and tried not to down the whole thing in one unhappy gulp. 

He could hear the nearby grad students laughing, probably at him, and stared down at his plate. He was going to kill Shitty the next time he saw him. 

They didn’t linger too long once most of their food (or all, in Bitty’s case, he looked comfortably full) was gone, since it looked like the place was closing.

“That was so delicious,” Bitty said as they exited the restaurant and got back into Jack’s car. “I loved it, thank you, Jack.”

Confused, Jack thanked him, his belly still roiling. They headed back to Providence, Bitty chattering happily the whole way there.

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Well, that had been a disaster. He hadn’t even been able to give Bitty the blowjob he’d been fantasizing about for the last three days. The damn goat dish had his stomach too upset.

Jack sighed and sunk further into his couch. He looked over at the spot where Bitty had been sitting less than two hours ago and resolved to do better next time. It wasn’t over yet.

He pushed off the couch with a grunt and went to find his laptop. The background was a photo he’d taken at Faber just after sunrise, the morning light glowing on the ice. He tapped the screen, right center ice and imagined Bitty there tomorrow morning, skating circles across the sun-soaked ice. Then he found the search bar and sat with his fingers on the keyboard.

He’d done this before with almost no luck, but he hadn’t really gotten past a few cosmopolitan quizzes, so he’d have to be more direct this time. No more quizzes.

What did you ask the internet when all you wanted was to be better? He typed out “how to be a better” and Google auto filled several options for him, including “better husband,” “better father,” and “better employee.” A couple rows down Jack saw it: “How to be a better boyfriend.”

To his cautious relief, he saw some promising links come up. He clicked on one from a magazine he thought sounded familiar. Had his father once been on the cover? Or maybe his mother? But it was terrible, as bad as those dumb quizzes he’d wasted all that time on a couple weeks ago. It was sexist, straight garbage. Jack tried another link, but again, it was all about how a woman wants to be chased and a man needs to be strong. Worried, he looked for something different. Not a magazine, to start. 

Was that… a wikihow? Amused, Jack clicked, and cautiously started looking at the suggestions. They were… not bad? The very first piece of advice was “be honest.” That sounded like good advice. It also sounded like it applied equally to a man who wanted to be a _man’s_ good boyfriend. Jack kept reading, and noticed right away when the article said “they” instead of “she.” Encouraged, he began to take notes. He should probably make a run at these one at a time.

So. Be honest. Jack could definitely do that! Trust them. Check. Jack had that one in the bag. He was feeling better already. Contribute equally to conversations. Jack wrote that down. Then he looked at it and frowned. That one… wasn’t his strength. But he could do it. He could do damn near anything, if it meant making Bitty happy, keeping Bitty in his life. He should probably prepare in advance. He started to write down things he could say, the next time he and Bitty talked. Once he had a list of twenty-five ideas that didn’t seem _too_ weird, he checked the time and picked up his cell phone to call Bitty. Better to do it now than wait until he lost his nerve.

As usual, Bitty picked up right away. 

“Jack!”

He sounded eager and joyful, and Jack let his shoulders loosen, just a bit. He could do this. He was motivated, and he finally had really good advice to follow.

“Hey bud,” Jack said, already more relaxed. He found the very first suggestion on his brand new list. “I wanted to say goodnight over the phone.”

“I always love hearing from you, sweetpea,” Bitty said warmly. “Even though you said goodnight when you dropped me off at the train station.”

“That was before bedtime, though,” Jack said.

“Well, but so is this, darlin’,” Bitty said, a little slower. “It’s only nine. You go to bed at ten most nights, when you don’t have a roadie in the morning, anyway.”

“Well, yeah,” Jack said, “but I wanted to have enough time to really talk before we said goodnight. Plus, I do have a roadie tomorrow. Nashville, Columbus and then St. Louis. I’ll be gone just over a week. So I really wanted to say goodnight properly, before I have to think about Tater overhearing everything I tell you.”

“Oh sweetpea!” Bitty cooed. “How thoughtful.”

Jack preened. “How was the train ride home?” he tried, next on his list, and Bitty was off to the races. A high-school girl on the train, her name was Naina, had wanted to talk about Samwell because she was thinking of applying and saw his shirt. Then a middle-aged lady had heard something Bitty said to Naina about baking, and she’d asked him about that, and before he knew it, Bitty had two people promising to watch his vlog and the nice woman, her name was Julia, had insisted on giving both him and Naina rides so they wouldn't have to take the bus from the train station. Julia was so nice!

Bitty kept going about Naina and Julia, and how he’d made plans to meet Naina at Annie’s on Tuesday after she got out for the day so he could show her around campus, and how he’d suggested Julia start with his tutorial on basic muffins that could be adapted in a zillion ways, and Jack sat there listening, but also wondering how he was supposed to get in a word edgewise and therefore ‘contribute equally to conversations.’ Did he just… break in? 

“Did you suggest she add protein to the muffins?” Jack interjected. He winced. He’d cut Bitty off in the middle of a word. “Because you know how I feel about protein,” Jack said awkwardly, when Bitty didn’t answer. 

“Well aren’t you sweet,” Bitty said, but he sounded a little uncertain. “There are proteins that work well in muffins. I like walnuts in muffins sometimes.”

“I like hemp seeds,” Jack tried. It was from his list. “They’re really high in protein.”

“Are they now?” Bitty mused, and now he sounded thoughtful. “I could try those. Are they tasty?”

Jack blanked. Were they? He didn’t know. He still usually regarded foods as either “approved” or “cheat day,” not either “tasty” or “not tasty.” Hemp seeds were high in protein, so Jack ate them. But he had to answer. “Um, I guess?”

Bitty laughed, and Jack felt himself blush. 

“Um,” Jack said, since he’d hardly spoken and Bitty wasn’t talking right now. He glanced again at his list of twenty-five topics. “How’s your homework coming?”

“Oh darlin’,” Bitty huffed. “Can’t we talk about something a little nicer than homework?”

Remembering the Wikihow’s advice to ‘be honest,’ Jack doubled down. “But when you come visit me, and your homework isn’t done, it stresses you out and we don’t have as much fun together. And you know I’m always happy to help you with your French, at least. Do you want to conjugate some verbs?”

Bitty huffed out a loud sigh, but Jack didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just waited. “All right,” Bitty said. Jack heard what sounded like paper and maybe a textbook getting thumped around. They conjugated verbs Bitty said he needed to practice, so they started with “to bake” then did “to hold.” Jack had Bitty practice “to be able” because it was irregular and Bitty had been having problems with it, but then Bitty took charge again and they did “to have,” “to love,” “to want,” “to touch,” and “to see.”

Then Bitty was quiet for a long, heavy moment and Jack wondered if they should conjugate something else irregular, but Bitty said he had to go now. “I love you,” Jack said, feeling like he’d lost his grip somewhere.

“I love you, too, darlin’,” Bitty said, but then he hung up. It was only 9:30. Well, maybe Bitty would use that extra half hour to… do homework? 

It wasn’t until he’d crawled into bed himself, brain mulling over the course of the day, that he replayed the conversation and cringed internally. Bitty hadn’t exactly been subtle with his verb choices, and Jack had still managed to miss it. Their conversation had been so stilted once Jack tried to contribute, unlike the conversations Bitty had with his new friends from the train. Bitty could talk to anyone, and here Jack was struggling to talk with his favorite person. Of course Bitty would want to find a better conversation partner than Jack. 

He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.

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Two days later Jack finally got around to reading the rest of the wikihow list on being a better boyfriend. He groaned when he saw how much he had missed. The very next thing on the list after he’d stopped reading was Be A Good Listener. Determined to be smarter about this, he kept reading, even though it was mostly stuff he kind of thought he already knew. He was better at some of the advice than others, of course. Dutifully, he wrote it all down.

Be Sympathetic, Show Affection, Compliments, Gifts, Take Care of Yourself... that last one had a picture of a thin guy lifting weights, and Jack snickered a little, despite himself. He might do it for the Falconers more than he did it for either himself or Bitty, but he knew Bitty nonetheless appreciated how much time and energy Jack had to spend on working out. Just as Jack appreciated the way Bitty worked out for the Wellies. Jack leaned back in his chair and day-dreamed for a few moments about Bitty’s spectacular hockey ass.

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The trip to India Palace had been a disaster, but that was all Jack’s fault. Well, and a little bit Shitty’s fault, too. He’d made the restaurant (and the goat dish) sound fantastic! But Jack still thought the idea had merit. Take Bitty out somewhere romantic, secluded, and private. With excellent food, low lighting and maybe even a glass of wine. And absolutely _no photographers_.

But how to find the right restaurant? If he asked… pretty much anyone he knew in Providence for a recommendation, they would chirp him to death for eternity. And Jack was… bad at the internet, finding that one good wikihow notwithstanding.

The answer came to him the next morning, as he was out running. Another runner came at him all of a sudden, and he had to dash to the right, where he nearly collided with an unwieldy metal box, bolted to the sidewalk, and full of… newspapers. Specifically, The Providence Journal. Jack kept running, but he made sure to come home with a copy that night, and bought a daily subscription that afternoon, over the phone. The restaurant reviews were easy to find, and it only took a week and a half to make a decision. Which was time he had in abundance, because now that both his and Bitty's seasons were in full swing, their schedules were harder to line up, and they didn’t have many nights available for things like romantic dinner dates.

Jack swallowed down a sudden spike of doubt. He knew Bitty thought it was cool that Jack played for the Falconers. He knew Bitty understood why he was away so much. Just like he understood the time restraints on Bitty’s end. Sometimes, though, Jack worried, felt the anxiety puddle in his stomach like a clogged storm drain, but then Bitty would call or text or just pop into Jack’s thoughts, like he somehow knew Jack needed him. And Jack knew that Bitty wasn’t a cure-all for his anxiety, but he helped calm the storm and unclog the drain, and some days that was all Jack needed. 

They had plans for Bitty to come visit the weekend of the 17th, and that’d be a great opportunity for another stab at a romantic dinner date. Jack called a place the newspaper rated five stars and described as ‘intimate’, and made a reservation for next Thursday at eight. 

Then he climbed into bed, because he had to fly to Chicago in the morning. 

Chicago meant a postcard of the handsome front facade of the Museum of Science and Industry, and a narrow win against the Blackhawks. From there they flew to Calgary, where Jack chose a postcard with a cute drawing of the city that featured the stadium to a degree of prominence that was almost comical. It said “Greetings From Calgary!” in the cheeriest font imaginable and Jack couldn’t help but smile as he wrote “Damn. Even I think it’s cold here! Good thing I don’t play for the Flames. Or worse, the Jets.” He signed it and hesitated. His American postcard stamps wouldn’t work in Canada. Luckily, a lot of hotel front desks had stamps. 

They beat the Flames five to three, flew to Pittsburgh and lost to the Penguins. Jack hated losing, especially to either of his Dad’s old teams. Crosby sometimes had a real smirk on him in the handshake line, and Jack wasn’t really good at letting stuff like that go. 

He sulked around the city in his blue wool suit after the matinee game and ended up watching a Fred Astaire movie in a fantastic old theater he stumbled into. He’d probably never be able to find this place again, he thought as he headed into the lobby after the show, but they had postcards for sale, so he bought one. He wrote a line to Bitty about the movie and the theater, pulled a postcard stamp out of his wallet, and found a blue post box on his long walk back to the hotel. Between Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers and the black and white postcard featuring the lovely old theater, Jack found himself smiling again.

Then he was finally back home. The cleaning service had come and the condo was spotless. The grocery service had come as well, and Jack’s freezer was stacked full of nutritionist approved, bland pre-made meals. Jack put in a small load of laundry and stared at his life. It was going to be a long two years until Bitty graduated and moved in with him. Maybe, hopefully, wearing a shiny engagement ring on his left hand. As long as Jack could figure out this “being a better boyfriend thing” somehow between now and then. He sighed, and settled in to watch tape. They had a home game in two days and another one right after. But after _that_ game, Jack was taking Bitty out to the finest restaurant in Providence. The newspaper had promised good food, excellent wine, and (perhaps most important of all) stellar desserts. Jack was very excited.

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They beat the Caps and the Coyotes, and Jack picked Bitty up from the train station riding a fabulous high. They couldn’t kiss this close to the train station, not before full sunset, but Jack was pretty sure Bitty knew how happy he was to see him.

“Great games, sweetpea!” Bitty cried as he tossed his overnight bag into the back seat. 

“Thanks, bud,” Jack said, holding nothing back from his smile. “I have a surprise planned for tonight,” he said as soon as Bitty had his seatbelt on. “I’m taking you out to dinner, at Table de l'océan.” He pulled away from the curb and grinned at Bitty’s squawk. 

“Table de l'océan!” Bitty’s accent was still pretty bad, and Jack tamped down a chirpy smile to listen. “That place is so fancy! You should have warned me when I was packing!”

“You left a suit in my closet,” Jack said.

“When did I do that?” Bitty cried, still flustered but hopefully also excited.

“When you came directly over after playing Brown?”

Bitty’s voice calmed. “Ooh, you're right,” he said. “I’d completely forgotten about that.”

“I had it dry cleaned with mine,” Jack said, as he slowed down for a red light. “So you're good to go, Bits.”

“Well, thank you, sweetpea,” Bitty said. “Good gracious, I can’t believe I’m going to eat at Table de l'océan! I’ve read amazing things about their mixed seafood risotto. And their tuna steak, my goodness. And their clam chowder! Oh gosh, that would be weird, wouldn’t it? To actually eat clam chowder? I don’t think I’ve had that since I met Chowder!”

Bitty babbled his excitement all the way back to Jack’s place, all the way through dressing for dinner, and all the way to Table de l'océan, where Jack availed himself of valet parking and found himself loving the look on his boyfriend’s face as he led him inside.

They were seated quickly, and while Jack was annoyed that his request for an “out of the way” table hadn’t been granted, he forgave the hostess when she offered a flustered apology. Apparently they were very busy, even though it was Thursday. She leaned in and murmured something about a special guest tonight, and Jack tried not to frown. 

Bitty was very excited about the menu, and Jack was trying to be as well, but he couldn't help but be distracted by the nervous energy pulsing among the staff.

“What is going on?” he finally asked out loud, and that was when Senator Sheldon Whitehouse entered the restaurant, holding hands with a lady his age who was surely his wife, and no fewer than three photographers. And their lights. “Putain de merde,” he whispered, horrified, and watched the Senator and his wife sit down just three tables away from him and Bits. One of the photogs set up a couple of lights. So much for their quiet, romantic meal.

“I am so, so sorry, Bits,” Jack muttered, trying not to attract the attention of any of the three (Three!) professional photographers thronging around the seated couple. “He doesn’t even run again until 2018. I have no idea why he’s doing this.”

Bitty reached for Jack’s hand and patted it once. Jack wanted to grab hold of and squeeze that hand, take comfort and apologize physically. But Three Professional Photographers! Bitty let go quickly and put his hand back into his own lap, and Jack watched him do it, longing for a world where their date would be of no interest to anyone other than them.

“Jack,” Bitty said in that tone he used when they were out in public, the tone that meant ‘sweetpea, darling, love.’ “There was no way for you to know, and I am having a lovely time.” 

One of the photogs snapped at a server and Jack flinched. Slightly, but Bitty had clearly seen.

“Do you want to get our meals to go?”

“I can’t do that to you, Bits,” Jack said. He could feel his frown filling his face and he tried to wipe it blank. How had their night gone so poorly? Jack wanted to be angry, but he was so, so tired. Tired of disappointing the world, his parents, Bitty. “I know how excited you were to be here.”

“To _eat_ here,” Bitty corrected gently. “Let me just speak with someone on the staff, all right?”

“I…” Jack looked over his shoulder, almost involuntarily, and accidentally caught the eye of a photog, who looked right back and raised both eyebrows in recognition. _Merde._

“Yeah, all right,” Jack said, feeling defeated, and Bitty slid smoothly from his chair and walked quickly and gracefully over to the hostess, who turned her whole self to listen attentively. She was blonde like Bitty, with huge brown eyes, just like Bitty, and with her high heeled shoes she was exactly Bitty’s height. She looked like she was made for Bitty and Jack deliberately picked up his water glass and took a long, slow, icy sip. _My boyfriend is gay,_ he told himself firmly.

“They completely understand,” Bitty said a few moments later, as he slipped back into his seat. “They’re packing up two meals to go. I took the liberty of ordering for you, sweetpea, because I know what you like, and she told me what could be available right away. Also, if you’ve read one single word of that menu I’ll bake my bowtie into a maple apple pie and eat it.”

Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re right,” he said, and caught their server’s eye. She came over, took his credit card, and their meal was ready for them to take home by the time everything had been rung up and his truck had been returned to the front door by the valet.

The drive home went swiftly, at least, and Jack carried the plastic bags and styrofoam containers into the condo while Bitty whirled around, fetching cutlery and stoneware, lighting candles. “Let’s sit here,” he said as he re-plated their meals and dimmed the light over Jack’s kitchen table, and Jack would have sat anywhere Bitty asked for a chance to salvage this mess of a night.

“I got you the seared tuna steak,” Bitty was explaining. He sat right next to Jack instead of across the table, and with their sides pressed together, Jack could feel himself start to relax again. Bitty broke off a piece of the steak and brought the fork up for Jack to taste. Jack obeyed, silent and then pleased. 

“I was afraid it would go cold,” he said. “But it’s hot and also tastes… really good?”

“Don’t be so surprised,” Bitty said, and his beautiful, musical laugh skipped down Jack’s arms and brought up goosebumps. “That place charges crazy prices for a reason.” 

He fed Jack another bite of tuna, and then put the fork down to try his mixed seafood risotto. Jack saw shrimp, mussels, clams, possibly even squid?

“Is it good?” he asked, and the sound Bitty made in response brought up more than goosebumps.

“It’s delicious,” Bitty said after he’d swallowed, his voice a little deeper than usual. “You should eat, sweetpea,” he said and settled his hand on Jack’s thigh. 

Jack obeyed, mechanically eating tuna, smashed red potatoes and steamed, plain broccoli until his plate was empty, trying to listen to Bitty talk over the sound of his own insecurity and resounding failure. 

They were both still in their suits, sitting in Jack’s kitchen, pressed beside each other, and Jack wished so very badly that this could’ve been their restaurant experience. That he and Bitty could’ve done this in public, looking handsome and in love. Jack didn’t hate his job for making him stay in the closet, but sometimes, in moments like this, he found himself wanting so much more than he was allowed to want.

After dinner, they hung their suits up in Jack’s closet and Jack got down on his knees right there in the doorway. He managed to blow Bitty twice that evening. First as Bitty hung unto the rod holding up the hangers, and again later in bed, when they were meant to be falling asleep. He had to make up for their disastrous evening somehow. If Bitty dumped him, he’d be lost for months.

💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙

Jack hung up his cell phone and stared, unseeing, at his refrigerator door. Bitty had said the words Jack had been dreading for months.

“We need to talk. Can you come over?” 

Stiffening his spine and grabbing a light coat, Jack headed for the parking garage and drove himself to Samwell. He put the cruise control on as soon as he hit the highway. Without it, he thought, he’d either slow down so much he would never arrive, or he’d speed himself right into a massive traffic ticket.

Forty or so minutes later, Jack knocked on the front door of the Haus, and Bitty opened the door almost instantly. He looked uncomfortable. Of course he did. He was about to break up with Jack. 

“Hey, Jack,” Bitty said, voice hesitant. “We’ll have to move fast; Chowder’s due back from class soon and I’m pretty sure either Ollie or Wicks is home. I heard someone stomping around in the attic earlier.” He opened the door wider and Jack crept in, avoiding a creaky spot on the floor and keeping his eyes down.

Miserable, Jack followed Bitty up the Haus stairs. Bitty’s gentle “we need to talk” was still ringing in his ears, and he felt like he was ascending the gallows. He’d tried so hard, wanted this relationship to work so very much. But he was just incapable of romance, wasn’t he? And Bitty had obviously had enough of Jack’s incompetence. 

“You can hang your coat in the closet if you like,” Bitty said as they entered his room, and Jack obediently slipped his jacket off his shoulders and opened the closet door. He nearly dropped it on the floor when he saw his postcards there, all of them neatly taped to the inside of the closet door, in the order Jack had mailed them. Stunned, he ran a finger down the line. Newark, Nashville, Phoenix, St Louis, Chicago, Calgary, Pittsburgh, Winnipeg, Boston, Seattle, Vegas…. Three rows of them, each starting at the top of the door and nearly reaching the bottom. One for every city Jack had visited this season, up until three weeks ago, when Jack had choked and stopped, worried he wasn’t being spontaneous like the wikihow said he should be. Worried he was being overbearing, far too casual, and just plain unromantic. But perhaps Bitty had appreciated the postcards more than Jack had guessed? 

Jack hung his jacket and slowly closed the closet door. No. Bitty had said they ‘needed to talk’. He’d clearly ruined this. He could only hope Bitty would at least explain what he’d done wrong, so that if Jack ever, somehow, managed to find someone as wonderful again, he might have half a chance at not ruining _that_.

“So,” Bitty said, sitting at his desk. “Like I said, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Jack swallowed and tried to look Bitty in the eye. But he got up just past Bitty’s chin and couldn't quite raise his eyes any further.

“Something’s been bothering you, honey,” Bitty said. “Something has been putting you on edge for… weeks? Maybe even a couple of months. I’ve been trying to encourage you to tell me what’s wrong, but I realized recently that I’m going to have to, um, make you tell me?”

Confused, Jack looked up now, and caught Bitty’s sympathetic eyes. He felt his face heat, and looked down at his knees. He squeezed them, and tried to force out an explanation.

And this was it. Jack was going to have to come clean about this whole stupid endeavor, point out his weird behavior and terrible boyfriending skills, and then Bitty would dump him in the very Haus they’d met, and Jack would have to do the world’s worst walk of shame. 

He almost couldn’t bring himself to say anything, the words trapped in his throat, but Bitty’s gaze was gentle, and if nothing else, Jack could give him this. 

“Thirdy was talking about being romantic for his wife,” he said quietly, “and I realized I needed to be more romantic? And I know I’m not good at it, but I hope I haven’t been too terrible? But I guess I have. I’m sorry about that. I was trying to, I mean, I really wanted to show you how important you are? To me? Because you are. So important to me.”

Jack’s tongue sealed itself to the roof of his mouth, and now that all the words were out, sitting in the air between them, Jack’s chest felt a little empty. He hadn’t realized he’d carried them around, just waiting to be given to Bitty, even if doing so made Bitty realize how much Jack relied on him. 

“Jack,” Bitty said gently, brushing a thumb over Jack’s cheek. And Jack thought, here it comes, the moment Bitty gently explains how he’s too good for Jack, that Jack converses both poorly and infrequently, that he’s awkward, never spontaneous, bad at romance and just an all-around terrible boyfriend. 

But Bitty just leaned in and kissed him, and Jack could feel him smiling in the kiss. After a moment, Bitty pulled back and looked up at Jack fondly. “Is this what all of that was about?”

“All of what?” Jack asked, a little dazed. 

Bitty laughed. “All the incredibly romantic gestures you’ve been making for months! The flowers and the postcards and the chocolate and taking me to nice restaurants—Jack, you don’t need to do all that. You’re an amazing boyfriend, you romance me _all the time_ , and I love you as you are.” 

Jack blinked. 

Bitty laughed, the sound dripping with relief, and tipped his head. “And here I thought maybe you were trying to find the courage to dump me. Jack, you don’t have to change how you are, I know you love me. And I know you’re romantic. It was very romantic, for example, when you sent all those roses to the Haus. But do you know what was even _more_ romantic?”

Jack shook his head mutely.

“It was more romantic when I asked you not to do that again and you _listened_ to me.”

Slightly stunned, Jack nodded on autopilot. Listening. Yes. That had been in the Wiki.

“And I really enjoyed getting all those sweet postcards from your roadies. Because again, I said something, about how you should mail things to my postbox on campus, and Jack, you _listened_. Then you showed me how every time you go out of town, you think about me. You go out of your way to talk to me from every city you visit. And you did it in the way that worked best for me. I loved all of that.” 

It sort of hit Jack all at once that this wasn’t going badly. In fact, it seemed like this conversation was...a good thing. 

His assumptions about today, this conversation, had been… wrong? Completely wrong. He shyly turned his hands over on his knees, and opened the curl of his fingers. Bitty immediately took hold of both of Jack’s hands, and Jack released a tight breath he’d apparently been holding in.

“The apron you sent me, and the matching oven mitts? That told me that not only were you paying attention to how much baking matters to me, but you support me in doing it. Taking someone who loves food to highly rated restaurants? That was so thoughtful. And then, you know, uh… all those, um, blowjobs?”

Jack snuck a look upwards, and Bitty was remarkably pink from cheekbones to ears, but was still managing to speak, clear and soft. “Those all told me that you find me attractive, and that it is difficult for you to be apart from me so much, just like it’s no fun for me to be so far from you. You aren’t bad at romance, sweetpea, you're wonderful at it. You’re… wonderful.”

“ _Crisse de Tabarnak_ ,” Jack breathed out, almost like a prayer of thanks. “ _Merci putain de Dieu_. Bitty, I thought I was losing you.” He could hear the rasp and strain of his voice, pushing to vocalize his greatest fear. “I thought I would lose you forever.”

“Jack,” Bitty said, and he waited until Jack made eye contact before he continued. “That would be very hard for you to do.” Bitty emphasized his words, slow and careful, and Jack felt every syllable sink into his heart like a balm.

💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙  
🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙 🏒  
🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙 🥧

\-------------------- 

**Author's Note:**

> “Yo, Chad,” Whiskey said, falsely casual. “The door was unlocked.”
> 
> “You can drop the bullshit,” Chad said, standing up and putting his arms around Whiskey. “The whole team is away at that game I have to miss.” He looked down, showing off the boot on his foot.
> 
> “Still fucked up, huh?”
> 
> “It’s honestly fine,” Chad scoffed. “The doctor’s a pussy who won’t let me play, and Coach said I couldn’t come along on the roadie because I need to get my grades up a little.” He rolled his eyes. “Nothing that’ll stop us from fooling around.”
> 
> “Cool,” Whiskey said, “If you say so.” He turned his head around to look at Chad’s room. “Never been here in the daytime before,” he remarked. “Dude,” he stopped, surprise clear in his tone. “Why do you have…” he leaned in closer to be sure, and Chad huffed a sigh and pulled away to sit on the bed. “That really is a Justin Bieber poster. I thought you weren’t out?”
> 
> “I tried to take it down,” Chad said, “but there was another one underneath! Exactly the same poster! And then Chad W said it was cursed and I wasn’t allowed to touch it, because they regenerate. Don’t look at it, man, just get over here and suck my cock.”
> 
> “Uh, yeah,” Whiskey said, but he resolutely turned away from the poster and pushed Chad down into the bedding.
> 
> “That’s more like it,” Chad said. 
> 
> And Bieber smiled.
> 
> 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙  
>  🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙 🏒  
>  🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙🏒🥧 💙 🥧
> 
> .
> 
> From the other room, Jack could hear Shitty puttering around making ambient noises and just generally touching all of Jack's stuff.
> 
> A moment later, though, Jack heard three things in quick succession:  
> The sound of a porcelain figurine being picked up from a hard wooden surface.  
> Shitty's voice: "The fuck is this?"  
> And the sound of something shattering.
> 
> Jack sighed.


End file.
